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‘If it’s a question of money, Rosie dear, well, I really don’t need the very generous legacy Bernice left me. You could use the money to smarten up the paintwork, and I’m sure Ollie would be more than willing to make a start on the garden. He’ll be at the village fair on Saturday. I’ll introduce you to him if you like.’
Rosie smiled at Susan, touched by the suggestion she had made.
‘Thank you, Susan, that’s a very kind offer, but no, it’s not a matter of finances at all. I admit I was shocked when I saw the For Sale board go up so swiftly. It’s just lawyers doing their job efficiently, I guess. But, sadly, I’m leaving to go back to the US tomorrow and I don’t have the time to spend commuting back and forth to the UK to enjoy the lodge’s charms. And I’m worried about its maintenance over the winter months, too. You can see how rapidly it deteriorated over the last few months of Aunt Bernice’s life.’
‘Your aunt was devastated at the state of the garden and that she couldn’t manage to get out as much as she used to, but she was waiting for Ollie’s arrival. Always the first weekend in May, he’d arrive with his wheelbarrow and chainsaw and have itwhipped into shape in no time.’ Susan’s arthritic fingers fiddled with the handle of her teacup. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. It’s your life and your choice. I just had to make the offer. I miss her so much. I feel a tremendous burden of guilt that I wasn’t with her when she passed away. If only I…’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Rosie, quickly. ‘Aunt Bernice died in her sleep. Nothing more sinister than that. I have to admit, though, that since I got the call about her passing, I’ve been doing the same as you, allowing my mind to cascade into various uncomfortable scenarios, and that path does no one any favours.’
Susan nodded, and Rosie was upset to see that tears were rolling down her papery cheeks. She reached out to pat her wrinkled hand, and she wondered whether Bernice had confided anything about her illness to her best friend. However, now was not the time to delve into painful topics. Maybe later.
‘It’ll be so difficult this summer without Bernice’s chirpy presence while I’m mopping up for the night. Remember when you were over here last summer, mending your broken heart after what happened with Carlos? She used to supply the tearoom with her wonderful speciality scones and her signature lavender macaroons. Well, they’ll be off the menu this year.’
Susan paused to pull an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and wipe her eyes.
‘You know, it’s becoming harder every year to keep the shop and tearooms open. There’s plenty of trade over the summer months from the weekend tourists and the guests staying at Somersby Manor Hotel and Spa which thankfully throws its doors open next weekend. But it’s hard physical work, and without your aunt’s support and her friendly face, I might have to think more seriously about taking Lucy and Jack up on their offer and emigrate to Brisbane.
‘You know, Mrs Campbell-Wright, that’s the owner of Somersby Manor, was only saying yesterday when she was in the shop how much she wishes they didn’t have to open up their home and welcome in paying guests to make ends meet. God knows, it must cost a fortune to run that house and its splendid grounds. If she decides not to though, I think that will be my cue to move on. Fate has a way of lighting up life’s path.’
Susan raised her ample buttocks from the wooden chair and deposited her teacup in the Belfast sink. ‘Thanks for the tea, Rosie. It’s a real shame you won’t be staying with us a little longer. Tell me, are you sleeping in the same bedroom as you did last summer?’
‘Ye…es.’ Rosie scrutinised Susan’s tired face for an explanation behind such an unusual question.
‘Maybe you could get started on boxing up your aunt’s personal things before you leave.’ Susan threw Rosie a strange look and patted her hand, still clenched around her own cup. ‘Bernice adored you, Rosie.’ She smiled, dimples appearing around her feathery lips like commas, and she quietly let herself out of the cottage that was obviously as familiar to her as her own home.
Rosie heaved herself from the pine table and dropped her own teacup into the sink, pausing to stare out of the window into the back garden. Despite the tangled chaos of the plants and shrubs, Bernice’s spirit still lingered amongst the marigolds and snapdragons. She was grateful her aunt had enjoyed a steadfast friendship with Susan to share her life and her secrets with; glad that her aunt had found comfort and joy and a sense of belonging with friends in the local community.
Emily was her own steadfast friend in this village community, and, like her aunt, Rosie knew the right thing to do was to listen to her advice. She headed into the lounge and snuggled into theover-stuffed chintz sofa with an intense feeling of nostalgia for the nights she had spent curled up in that very place bemoaning her loss of Carlos to the sympathetic audience of her aunt. Should she stay a little longer? After all, she had nothing to go chasing back to Manhattan for now.
She couldn’t settle.
Why had Susan asked her which room she was sleeping in? It was a strange enquiry to make, even for someone accustomed to extracting the minutiae of people’s lives. She unfurled her long legs from the sofa and padded up the stairs.
Dusk had splayed a medley of apricot, ivory, and mauve tendrils across the evening sky and the last embers of the sun melted into the horizon. When she pushed open her bedroom door and switched on the light, her eyes fell on the old oak toy box that had been such a part of her childhood. It was where her aunt had stowed her books and games, and an old porcelain doll with a wonky eye, for when she came to visit Bernice before her parents emigrated to America.
Her heart rammed against her ribcage as she approached the symbol of those early years she had spent there at Willowbrook Lodge. This washerwooden chest, no one else’s. Hannah had been born after the family arrived in Connecticut.
Nerves tingled at her fingertips as she stepped forward and slowly lifted the lid.
Chapter Fourteen
The faint whiff of lavender, mingled with dried straw, permeated the musty air. Rosie experienced a heightened sense of anticipation as she wondered what secrets the chest would hold, but as her eyes flicked into the corners of the scarred wooden box, she saw only a small, brown leather suitcase sealed by rust-blistered buckles.
A further perfunctory rummage revealed just a pair of sixties-inspired curtains covering the bottom, so she grabbed the case and removed her head from the trunk, grateful to be avoiding the possibility of coming face-to-face with a pair of beady eyes. Never a fan of errant spiders, she gave an involuntary shiver and shook her tousled curls, her skin prickling at the thought of a hairy, eight-legged friend mistaking her hair for a golden-webbed home.
Rosie carried the ancient suitcase downstairs and into the lounge, pausing to draw the curtains on the darkness pressing against the windowpanes. She set the case on the coffee table, unfastened the recalcitrant buckles, and raised the lid to reveal the faded Liberty-print lining and a jumble of leather-bound journals, their ribbon bookmarks protruding from the pages like lizards’ tongues.
Selecting the largest, she carefully peeled back the cover to reveal an artist’s sketch pad. Each sheet was separated by a flimsy leaf of translucent paper that crinkled as she turned the pages in wonderment. Every illustration sprang from the pagewhen Rosie released them from slumber in their artist’s folio. The depictions were skilfully true-to-life, yet the artist’s style had an undeniable flair that added character and life to each of the drawings. Her heartbeat accelerated as she encountered the individual stems of blossom and flowering herbs, each sprig as vibrant as the day they were drawn, especially the lavender – she could literally smell it. The illustrator had been a true virtuoso with a pencil and brush.
The botanical sketches were an artist’s interpretation of the residents of Bernice’s garden – a portfolio of more than thirty exquisitely detailed specimens. But the biggest surprise was that each sketch was accompanied by her aunt’s handwriting setting out a recipe which included the herb, or plant, or fruit depicted as its essential ingredient.
Rosie lingered on the illustration of a strawberry plant, its runners framing a recipe for strawberry tarts. But the recipe title confused her. She flicked back to the journal’s title page and her lips stretched into a smile.
‘Bake Yourself Better!’ her aunt had printed in her familiar green ink scrawl.
The three capital letters of the title had been enlarged and illustrated with implements from the world of baking – a whisk, a spatula, a rolling pin, a cookie cutter, even a tiny pastry brush. The title page was a work of art in itself. Her aunt had always said that the wooden spoon was mightier than the psychiatrist’s pen when it came to mental health, and here was the evidence that she intended to share her wisdom.
The remaining three sketch pads in the case contained drafts of the illustrations Bernice had been commissioned to sketch for the children’s books she had illustrated and even to Rosie’s untrained eye they were superb.
